It's just another day at the candy shop for Sherlock: a quiet afternoon spent more on reading his latest fantasy novel than on selling candy. The kind of day he loves, even if the looming New Year's Eve leaves him feeling nostalgic and a little lonely. But then the last person he ever expected to see walks through the door of his shop, and Sherlock realizes that some things don't fade with time, but only grow stronger.
Something Sweet
By Megan Derr
Published by Less Than Three Press
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.
Edited by Samantha M. Derr
Cover designed by Megan Derr
This book is a work of fiction and as such all characters and situations are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.
First Edition December 2011
Copyright © 2011 by Megan Derr
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN 978-1-62004-000-3
Something Sweet
Megan Derr
The downside of having worked in his store for so many years was that he became so used to certain sounds that he stopped hearing them. The shop had been quiet all day; the holiday season was winding down and snow had been falling practically nonstop since lunch. Nobody was leaving a warm house to buy candy.
He only looked up because the crinkle of plastic and foil was out of place against the jazz music his latest employee thought everyone should love. Sherlock never thought he'd miss Clarence's ridiculous screamy music, but he had learned the error of his thinking.
The first thing he noticed when he looked up was the man's ass. It was a damned fine one, made for grabbing and much, much more. Sherlock shook himself before he got caught staring. He lived in a pretty open neighborhood, but people still didn't like being gawked at.
When the man half-turned, and Sherlock caught his profile, he dropped his book in surprise. Flushing, he ducked behind the counter to retrieve it and remember how to breathe again.
No way. No fucking way was Basil Dalton in his store. Basil had left home to attend college on a football scholarship and never looked back. Last thing he'd heard through the gossip network was that Basil was still shattering records as a pro. After that, Sherlock had stopped looking for crumbs. At some point, a guy had to move on and stop pining after someone who had never really looked his way. High school was thirteen years behind him; it was long past time he got over that crush.
But Jesus was the thirteen-years-older version worth its own crush. Having a better idea about what to with a man like that was not helping. What the fuck was he was supposed to say? Would Basil remember him? Doubtful. Why would someone like that remember the scrawny, nerdy kid who'd lived in the shitty house at the end of the block and spent all of summer vacation working in his grandfather's old-fashioned candy shop?
"Hello?"
Swearing silently, Sherlock finally snatched up his dropped book and made himself stand. "Hi! Can I help you with something?"
Basil didn't reply, just stared at him with a slight frown, a bit of hesitance. Finally he asked, "Detective?"
Sherlock grimaced at the old nickname because really, what had his parents thought people were going to call him his entire life? "Long time no see, Basil."
To his astonishment, Basil broke into a wide grin. "You remember me."
Brow drawing down in confusion, Sherlock replied, "Who could forget our world famous star athlete?"
Basil's smile dimmed, turned forced. "It has been mentioned a time or two. Or five hundred. Anyway, what are you doing here? I figured you'd be somewhere causing explosions or creating cures for cancer or something,"
"Or something," Sherlock agreed, amused and annoyed in equal measure that everyone was so surprised he'd choose his grandfather's shop over being whatever mad genius they liked to think he'd been. "Explosions are overrated. You still like shoplifting peppermint sticks?"
Even more shocking than the earlier smile was the way Basil went beet red. "That was on a stupid dare," he said, rubbing the back of his head. "Peggy and her crew dared me to do it just to be jerks. They knew—well, they knew too much, back then."
Sherlock snorted. "Peggy hasn't changed. If you haven't already run into her, keep avoiding. She's pregnant right now, but I think it makes her worse. We were all kinda hoping it would slow her down, but no such luck."
Basil laughed, and Sherlock tried not to gawk, but it was hard. Being a famous football player been good for Basil: he was tall and broad and fit as hell. His black hair was short, as if it had been shaved and was only just starting to really grow back in. There was a small scar on the right side of his chin, and his nose looked as though it had been broken more than once. His eyes were still the color of faded denim, warm and soft and comfortable. Even if Sherlock had never once felt comfortable around Basil. No, his libido was way too involved for comfort to be possible. "Nothing like a small town," Basil finally said as his laughter faded. "How are your folks? Is it true they moved away?"
"They moved to the west coast, yeah. Fancy beach house and everything. They came for Christmas; they'll be sorry to hear they missed you."
"Your folks were good to me."
Sherlock smiled. "They liked you, and god knows I sucked at mowing the lawn." As he'd hoped, the comment made Basil laugh again. Sherlock tried to tell his cock to behave and the weird feeling in his chest to go the hell away, but he was soundly ignored. Licking his lips, fussing restlessly with his silly book, he asked, "So are you visiting for the holidays? How long are you staying?"
"Moving back, actually. Now that I'm retired—"
"Retired?" Sherlock blurted. "I didn't know that."
Basil grinned. "You keep up with the gossip on Peggy, but not on me? I'm hurt, Detective."
Sherlock laughed, shoving his paperback aside and leaning his elbows on the counter. "That's a matter of survival. I just lost track, figured you were still kicking ass somewhere."
"So you did keep tabs on me?"
Realizing too late he'd been played, Sherlock flushed and said, "Doesn't everyone? Our big, famous jock. You and Henry were the only ones who amounted to anything, though most of us have done alright. But selling candy has nothing to do with regular appearances on ESPN. You're uncle and aunt must be beside themselves, especially after that Super Bowl win."
Basil smiled, but there was a distinctly wobbly quality to it. "We don't really talk much anymore. Let's face it, we never really did."
"I'm sorry," Sherlock replied, meaning it. Everyone knew that Ron and Angie Dalton had been the biggest asses in town. They'd done their Christian Duty bringing up the nephew Angie's sister had left behind when she died in a car accident and had never let anyone forget it. While Sherlock had buried himself in studying because that was what he was supposed to do, Basil had worked hard at what had probably seemed his only ticket out of the pit of god-fearing vipers with whom he lived.
"Eh," Basil said. "I got over them a long time ago. It's their loss. It's good to be back, though it still feels kind of weird."
Sherlock smiled faintly at that. "It goes away pretty quick. I felt weird when I came home for Granddad's funeral. After being in Boston for so long..." He shrugged. "When the will was read and everyone learned he'd left me the shop, my parents thought I should sell it. But I couldn't bear the thought and liked the idea of staying. It stopped feeling weird soon enough."
"Good to know. Do you still live—" He broke off when the door opened, the bell above it ringing, and they both turned to see who had entered.
"Hi, boss!"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. Clarence, his assistant manager, had left for lunch with blue hair. He had returned with orange. "Nice hair. You barely had the blue a week."
Clarence grinned. "Orange will look better with my outfit for the New Year's bash tomorrow night. You been harassed into going, yet?"
"I plan on spending New Year's Eve the same way I always spend it," Sherlock retorted. "Far away from the drunken shenanigans of the rest of you."
"Just you and gramps and—holy shit, you're Basil Dalton!"
Basil smiled, friendly and polite and one hundred percent business mode. Sherlock knew a professional smile when he saw one. Damn it. Turning away, leaving his old crush and his goth-punk assistant manager to talk sports, he tucked his book under the counter and went to tidy up around the store.
He fussed around with a display of candy ideal for parties and gifts then went to get a broom. When he came back out of the back room, he saw that Clarence was alone. Disappointment hit him hard, but Sherlock told himself he was being stupid. A remarkably friendly—and entirely too enjoyable—chat didn't mean anything. It definitely didn't mean that Basil owed him a goodbye.
"Dude, dude, I can't believe you never told me you were pals with Basil Dalton."
"We aren't pals," Sherlock said irritably and started sweeping the floor with a vengeance. "We lived on the same street and at completely opposite ends. He mowed our lawn, and in high school sometimes I'd give him a ride home. That's all."
Clarence smirked, the effect somewhat ruined by the melodramatic sweep of florescent orange bangs falling in his face. Sherlock really couldn't wait for summer when his hair returned to Standard Emo Black. "Is that why you were making eyes at each other when I came in? Cause you weren't pals? Man, wait until I tell Mel you already snapped him up."
"Like Mel wants anybody, but his millionaire," Sherlock said. "I haven't snapped up anyone. And we weren't making eyes."
"You were making eyes," Clarence said. "If I'd come back any later, I bet I would have found the stockroom door suspiciously locked."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Go home and finish getting ready for the annual alcohol-poisoning. Your orange hair is scaring away the whole two customers I'm going to get this afternoon."
Clarence snickered. "I'm gone. Never fear, I'll be in Monday to manage the store. Oh, Basil said to tell you sorry he had to bolt, and he left you something here. Bye!"
The door banged shut behind him, and Sherlock gave up all pretense of sweeping to see what Basil had left him. He hadn't even noticed Basil was holding anything, and why would he bring Sherlock something? They'd barely known each other. He frowned when he saw the plastic grocery bag folded around whatever was inside—whatever obviously being a hardback book.
Picking it up, he got the plastic bag open and off—and then stared in shock. The cover was of a fierce looking black dragon equipped for riding, the reins held by a man who looked equal parts flesh and clockwork. The title was in a font that furthered the steam punk vibe of the rider. The Timekeeper, it said. But it was the author's name that blew him away: B.M. Dalton.
Since when did Basil write? Hopping neatly over the counter, Sherlock snatched up his phone from the shelf just below it and pulled up a browser. An hour later, he had learned that B.M. Dalton was a promising new addition to the world of fantasy with six remarkable short stories to his name and a novel debuting the first week of the new year.
Had Basil quit football to write? Basil set his phone on the counter and picked up the book, opening it to read the blurb. He didn't look up again until his phone started playing the most obnoxious country song he'd ever heard. Silently plotting revenge on Clarence, he snatched it up, saw it was Mel calling, and hit the silent button.
When it finally stopped ringing, he waited for the ding of an incoming text. He grinned when it showed and typed back a brief "hell no". He ignored the reply, which was along the lines of a drunkenly typoed "fuck you".
Noticing the time, Sherlock wondered when the hell it had gotten to be so late. Reluctantly setting the book aside, he went about closing up the store,
Two hours later, he grabbed the book, killed the lights, and went through the stockroom to the stairs in the back that led to the upstairs apartment he called home.
He'd redone the whole place after he'd taken over the shop, but he still saw the faded old furniture, the table stacked with leather bound books, the ashtray piled with cigarette butts ... He still saw his grandfather and remembered all the summers he had spent either helping about the store or listening to him read. If not for his grandfather, Sherlock knew he'd have been wearing that lab coat everyone had expected to see. Every now and then he thought about those first two years of college: the classes, the labs, his future already drafted and waiting.
Then he'd gotten the call that his grandfather was dead. Sherlock had cried through the whole funeral. He'd been astonished to learn all those old books and so many other things had been left to him. He'd cried all over again to realize the candy shop had been left to him. His parents had not been amused when he said he wasn't selling it; they were even less amused when he'd dropped out of college to run it. They'd gotten over it, though, when they realized he really was happy.
Still he felt ... interloper wasn't the right word. Granddad had been gone too long for Sherlock still to feel as though he were intruding. But something still felt wrong, as if there were something missing. He didn't know what, though. He'd torn out all the old shelves, carpet, and wallpaper. The front rooms were now painted a dark rich green, his bedroom blue, the kitchen red, the bathroom a lighter green. New oak shelves were mounted on most of the living room walls, packed with his own books and those his grandfather had left him. The furniture was warm-toned brown leather matched by a soft green recliner. Everyone kept telling him to get a TV, but Sherlock never got around to it. His Mac sat on the coffee table, still open. An enormous fat tabby was sprawled across the sofa, looking as lazy as only a cat could. "Have you moved even once today, Doyle?"
The cat blinked at him, then went back to sleep.
Rolling his eyes, Sherlock set the book down beside his computer and went to go shower and change. Half an hour later, wearing his favorite black sweatpants, towel draped over his shoulders while he worked at drying his thick hair, Sherlock started a pot of coffee and threw a Tupperware of leftover casserole in the microwave.
Immediate chores addressed, he snatched up Basil's book and opened it up to where he'd left off. He stopped reading when his stomach growled and finally set the book aside to go get the coffee and dinner he'd forgotten. He dumped the casserole into a bowl, got a clean fork from the dishwasher, poured a cup of coffee, and carried it all back to the living room.
He downed the coffee quickly then ate enough of the casserole to shut his stomach up. Pushing the dishes away, he picked the book up again and stretched out on the couch. When he finished, eyes were sore from reading for so long and his body stiff from lying on the couch; he saw it was three in the morning. December thirty-first. The new year loomed. Sadness pulled at him, a familiar old ache that refused to fade off. He'd always adored his grandfather, always been happy to spend his summers working, but he hadn't realized just how much until he was long gone.
New Year's Eve was the worst. It had been their tradition for as long as Sherlock could remember, ever since his parents had gone out of town when his father's mother had died. Sherlock had never interacted with that side of family, who had never forgiven his father for marrying his mother.
Sherlock had spent that year end with his grandfather, there in the candy shop. He'd fallen asleep, but had woken and to find Granddaddy missing. A few anxious minutes of searching had found him downstairs in the candy shop, looking sad and drinking a grown up drink. They always had a certain look to them, grown up drinks.
Granddaddy had set Sherlock on his lap and let him have a sip and told about the tradition he and Sherlock's grandmother had had of toasting the New Year in Something Sweet. Sherlock had joined him every year since, even after he had left to attend college.
It had been hard, carrying on the tradition by himself for the first time. It wasn't the sort of thing his parents cared for, and he'd had no friends close enough to want to ask. No, it was a tradition to be kept close. An especially close family member, a lifelong friend ... or a lover, the kind who became a partner.
Pointedly not letting his mind wander places it had no business going, Sherlock stumbled his way to his bedroom, stripped off his clothes, and fell into bed.
*~*~*
Sherlock looked up as the bell rang, and all his carefully rehearsed words flew his mind and left him a witless idiot. Basil approached the counter, and the smile he offered was so shy and hesitant that Sherlock relaxed slightly. "Hi."
"Hey," Basil replied. "I—uh—sorry for bolting yesterday. There was a minor crisis with the moving company. It's all sorted now. I—" He broke off, looking awkward.
"So do I get to keep the book you gave me?" Sherlock broke in.
To his amusement and growing fondness, Basil flushed. "Y-yeah. It's all yours."
Sherlock retrieved the book from under the counter and slid it across to him. "Then you should sign it for me."
"Oh—yeah, sure," Basil said, smiling shyly, sweetly. Sherlock wanted to drag him into the stockroom, and it would completely be worth the unrelenting teasing from Clarence. Pulling a pen from his leather jacket, Basil bent over the book and, after a moment of hesitation, wrote and signed. He handed the book back and said, "So you didn't hate it? I mean, if you got a chance to read it."
"All I did last night was read it," Sherlock admitted. "I loved it. Please tell me there will be more."
Basil laughed, beamed, but it was the lingering hint of shyness in a man he remembered as always being so cocky despite everything that Sherlock loved best. "Yeah, I'm signed for five of them, maybe more."
Sherlock leaned on the counter, tilted his head to the side. "So how and when did you get into writing?"
Rubbing at his nose, Basil said, "Ah, I always kinda did it a little bit, in high school anyway. But it was all stupid shit, never showed it to anyone. Same in college and later while I was playing full time. S'what I did to pass the time, fill the hours when the season was over, and I wasn't practicing. One of my teammates saw it, though, and made his sister read it. She's an agent, wouldn't leave me alone about it, said I was really, really good and fuck football." He smiled wryly. "To my surprise, I kind of agreed with her. So I finished out my contract and quit, worked on the writing full time. I'm still a bit shocked it hasn't blown up in my face, though I'm really not looking forward to the book tour. The guys have been razzing me hard, and there are all kinds of comments everywhere about how good a book could a dumb jock really write?"
"Be sure to tell them you write well enough to sit at home all day laughing in their faces," Sherlock said. "You're a man of many talents."
Basil smiled and leaned over the counter himself. "At the end of the day, I'm still just a dumb kid mowing lawns and accepting rides because I suck at flirting."
Sherlock opened his mouth to reply then closed it as the words registered. "What?" He stared in surprise.
The smile faded, and Basil drew back suddenly, tension filling his shoulders. "Should I have just kept my mouth shut?"
"No!" Sherlock said hastily, then moderated his tone and smiled. "No way. After thirteen years, it's kind of a shock to realize that we both maybe needed to speak up more."
"Oh," Basil said, then Sherlock could see the words really hit. "Oh!" He grinned sheepishly. "Kids are dumb; we were no different. I like to think I'm a little less stupid now. So are you going to the New Year's party tonight? It's all I've heard about since I got here. I don't remember anything like it when we were growing up. Of course, when we were growing up, this little area was not the rainbow zone. Kind of cool that's what it's become."
Sherlock shook his head. "Nah, I never go. Still not my thing, really. I have other plans. Don't drink the punch, whatever you do. You'll be recovering for a week."
"Ah, okay," Basil said, looking disappointed. "I have to leave tomorrow to finish packing up my shit down in Florida. Did you maybe want to get together when I come back in a couple of weeks, then?"
It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if Basil wanted to spend New Year's with him, but Basil had sounded like he wanted to go the party, and he was a football pro turning world famous writer and must have been used to something more exciting than sitting in an empty candy shop drinking brandy. So he bit the question off and said instead, "Sounds great."
"Cool," Basil said. "Unfortunately I have to go now, but I'll stop in tomorrow before I go back?"
Sherlock nodded. "Definitely do."
Basil smiled, and Sherlock wished he'd stop because his smiles were really the most distracting thing ever. Then he abruptly leaned across the remaining space between them and stole a quick, soft kiss. Sherlock blinked then rolled his eyes, one corner of his mouth tilting up. "Dork."
Grinning, Basil waved and left. The store felt empty without him in a way it never had before. Sherlock liked being busy—liked the income—but he liked the quiet days a lot too. But he wished Basil were back already.
Well, a couple of weeks and then they had a date, and that was something he never thought he'd have with Basil. Maybe next year he could ask Basil to join him in the shop on New Year's Eve. That was probably getting way ahead of himself—definitely getting ahead of himself—but Sherlock just didn't fucking care right then.
He was allowed to be a total dork when there was no one around to catch him at it. Glancing down, he pulled the book Basil had signed for him closer and flipped it open—and then just stared, breath fleeing his body. To Sherlock, who inspired the first story I ever wrote ~ Basil
Sherlock suddenly wished he'd asked Basil to join him after all and called himself a fucking idiot for not thinking to get a damned phone number.
Ah, well. He'd be back in two weeks, and Sherlock would see him briefly the next day. Abandoning the counter, Sherlock went to putter and clean around the shop to make the afternoon go faster, thoughts mostly on where to go on their date and wondering how the hell he'd gotten so fucking lucky.
He closed the shop for lunch and headed down the street to Bennett's bar, in the mood for a burger and beer. Sliding onto his usual stool, he smiled in greeting and waited for Bennett to get to him. "How's it going?" he asked when Bennett finally came over with his usual stout.
"Not bad," Bennett said. "Finally got quiet. This place was crazy about an hour ago. Mr. Fancy Pants and all his writer and sports friends were in here, though I don't know why when I'm about as un-fancy as you get."
"Basil was here?" Sherlock asked. "I saw him earlier. He gave me a copy of his book."
Bennett sneered. "Everyone knows that thing is ghost-written, or whatever they call it. I remember how he used to sleep through classes, and I doubt being knocked around a field improved his brain cell count. You should've seen them in here, all suit and tie and import beer. He had that super bowl ring on and was flashing it around everywhere. Thinks he's so special."
Normally, Bennett's sour, bitter gossip was easy to ignore. Everyone knew he had wanted to be greater and grander than the owner of a small town bar. He never let anyone forget that everyone, but himself was to blame for the car accident that had wrecked his knee.
Right then, however, Sherlock wasn't in the mood to ignore it. "He didn't have the book ghost written, and Basil isn't the kind to flash anything around." Hell, he hadn't even been willing to show Sherlock his book himself, just left it on the counter and ran. "Basil was always a good guy, and that didn't change near as I can tell."
Bennett rolled his eyes. "Please, everyone knows you spent your entire life making eyes at him like some sort of girl, Detective. That's why we dared him to steal from the candy store, don't you remember that? You guys were so easy to fuck with."
"Shut up, Bennett," Sherlock snapped.
"Touchy, touchy. Did you hear he's buying up the old Millstone place? Fancy boy comes home and buys himself a fancy house, and he's been driving around in his fancy car, too. I don't know why he's coming home except maybe everyone else is tired of his bullshit, and he thinks we're so tiny and in awe we won't care."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and tried to ignore the rest of Bennett's bitching, relieved when he finally wandered off to help another customer. He glanced disinterestedly at the TV—and froze when he saw it was an ESPN spot about Basil. Of course it would be. With the book due out soon, it must be big talk all over again. If Basil's publisher knew how to market, they'd be certain to make it news.
Jeez, Basil looked good in a suit. It must have been tailored, the way it fit those shoulders. Sherlock wished they'd show a shot of his ass. He listened to the interview as best he could, smiling faintly at the way Basil lit up talking about his book, the shy smiles that appeared despite the way he was clearly used to doing such interviews.
His own smile faded as that thought sank in, and he wondered why the hells Basil would return to their little town when he clearly was only going to keep climbing higher. He wasn't Sherlock, who had realized he'd hated being a scientist. Basil clearly had liked football well enough to do it as long as he had and was so obviously in love with writing.
Why retreat to his itty bitty home town and flirt with a washed up, going nowhere candy shop owner?
Suddenly no longer hungry, Basil paid his tab and left, retreating to his shop once more and hiding behind the counter, doing his paperwork between customers. The harder he tried not to think about Basil, the more futile the effort became. He replayed their two short conversations over and over, wondering that the hell Basil really wanted, what he saw, when he could have literally anyone he wanted.
Well, he supposed he'd figure it out in two weeks, if he didn't manage to completely bungle their date. He'd settled on Mary's steakhouse as a good place to go, but wondered suddenly if that wasn't good enough.
Argh. Giving up for the day, judging it late enough he wasn't likely to get more customers, Basil closed up shop, cleaned everything again, then went upstairs to shower and eat and kill more time. Maybe he'd clean his entire apartment. That should keep doubts at bay for a little while. Maybe. Hopefully.
*~*~*
He went back downstairs at eleven, taking Basil's book with him to reread more slowly than he had the first time, along with a bottle of brandy and two lowballs. He was sure the kinds of people Basil spent time with would bitch at him for using the wrong kind of glass, but it was what he and his grandfather had always used, and Sherlock wasn't changing to appease people who weren't there.
As it did every year since he'd continued the tradition solo, the shop seemed unbearably empty—lonely. Sherlock thought of Basil then tried to push the thought aside. He was working himself up over nothing and knew it, but it did no good to tell himself that because he wasn't believing it.
God, two weeks was going to take forever, and it didn't really help he'd see Basil tomorrow since it was probably going to be a quick hi and by sort of thing. But Basil had stolen that kiss, and that counted for something, no matter what anyone said.
Sherlock sighed at himself and opened the brandy, pouring about a shot's worth into each glass then setting the bottle aside. He picked up one of the glasses, swirled the brandy around, and glanced at the clock. Forty five minutes to go.
He glanced down at the book and tried to read it, but his mind kept drifting right on back to its author.
Someone knocked on the door, making him jump and yelp, turn wide eyes—and they widened still further when he saw Basil standing outside, looking red from the cold, snow covering his bare head. Leaping over the counter, Sherlock bolted across the store and unlocked the door, ushering him inside.
"H-hi," Basil said through chattering teeth.
Sherlock locked the door again then dragged him to the counter. "Hi. What are you doing here?"
"S-s-sorry if I'm i-i-intruding."
"You're not," Sherlock said quietly, because fuck if he didn't feel better just having Basil there, whatever his reason. "Would you like some brandy?" Basil nodded, and he filled one of the glasses a bit more, then handed it over. "What's up?"
Basil sipped at the brandy, closing his eyes and sighing. "God, that tastes good. If I have to drink one more fucking martini or some beer I can't pronounce or a whiskey that costs more than my new mortgage payment, I'm going to kill somebody."
Sherlock laughed and without thinking, reached out to tug at the sweater Basil was wearing: soft, well-fitted, and if he wasn't mistaken, it was cashmere. A beautiful deep blue that brought out Basil's eyes, matched the dark gray slacks he wore perfectly. "I thought you were going to the annual alcohol-poisoning."
"Was, did, hated it," Basil said. "I also realized I was overdressed, not that anyone complained." He finished the brandy and set the glass on the counter, then swiped a hand through his hair, ruffling it. "I'm kind of sick of it all, you know? Nobody seems to get that."
Tilting his head thoughtfully, Sherlock confessed, "I guess I'm not much better. I've spent all damn day trying to figure out why you asked me out when you look like GQ and probably have enough money to buy out half this town. Bennett was so jealous he was literally turning green, especially when he mentioned the Millstone place."
Basil groaned and covered his face with his hands—hands, Sherlock noticed, that were devoid of rings. "I'm going to kill that real estate agent. I couldn't get her to show me anything reasonable. Everyone thinks I want ten bedrooms, three living rooms, five baths, a pool, a conservatory—I don't know what the heck that even is—and like servants or something. Dude, I have an apartment in Florida and not even a fancy one. I sink money into electronics and music, but that's all really. I don't—I'm not—"
He looked so fucking miserable that Sherlock couldn't stand it; he didn't stop to think, just stepped closer, leaned up, and kissed him. Basil drew a startled breath, hands landing awkwardly on Sherlock's hips as he returned the kiss.
When they finally pulled apart, Basil looked much happier, and Sherlock felt more than a little pleased.
"I never stopped thinking about you," Basil said softly. "It's probably stupid, to never give up on a childhood crush, but you were always so quiet and still and—and sweet." His cheeks turned red. "Not flashy or glitzy or loud or expensive or anything like that. I left because I thought I wanted something more, thought I needed to be something more. Of course, I always thought you'd be long gone. I came back here just hoping to figure out where you'd ended up."
Sherlock laughed. "I thought I would be, too, but here I am."
"Here you are," Basil said softly, reaching up to push back a lock of hair that had fallen against Sherlock's cheek. "My quiet detective, still in his candy shop, still the sweetest thing in it."
"That's a terrible line," Sherlock said, grinning.
Basil smiled back. "I told you I was a terrible flirt."
"I've dealt with worse," Sherlock said. "So what made you come here so late?"
"Just a hope. I keep forgetting to get your phone number, and someone mentioned you lived over the shop earlier. You said you had other plans, but I figured it couldn't hurt … I just didn't want to start the new year at yet another stupid fucking party. It's probably dumb, but … " He shrugged. "I don't want to do all of that any more. I like this." He swept an arm out, indicating the shop. "Something small and quiet and simple—and sweet."
Sherlock smiled at him, and glanced at the clock behind the counter. "Well, it's nearly midnight. My grandfather and I always did a toast here in the shop." He refilled Basil's glass and gave it to him, then picked up his own. He clinked their glasses as it began to chime the New Year. "To something sweet."
"To something sweet," Basil echoed and took a sip of brandy before setting their glasses aside in favor of a very promising New Year's kiss.